


The Devil and His Harbingers

by generalzero



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Aromantic, Bisexual Character, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Gender-Neutral Apprentice (The Arcana), Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Second Person, Redemption, Tarot, asra youre not off the hook either stop keeping so many secrets, but he's still a decent guy kind of?, fuckboy!Lucio, listen folks everyone in the arcana is bisexual i dont make the rules, lucio you need to own up to your goddamn mistakes, lucio's floofy doggos are good bois, nadia honey youre fine youre doing great, posession, ressurection of dramatic fucking martyrs i'm looking at you julian, the courtiers are surprisingly badass, theyre also the four harbingers of the damn apocalypse, valerius really needs a drink, wow the order of these tags is sooo mixed up, written post book xiii
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 18:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15346419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalzero/pseuds/generalzero
Summary: All Lucio ever wanted out of life was excitement, renown and pleasure--and Lucio has always gotten what he wanted.Until now, that is. Lucio can't quite remember everything that has happened since he got his prosthetic, but he knows one thing for sure: he'll be damned before he lets this usurping, impersonating, infuriating demon destroy Vesuvia.The problem is... if the Apprentice won't help him, damnation might be exactly what's in store for Lucio.





	1. Book I: The Magician

**Author's Note:**

> So goatman has creeped me out from the start, but Lucio apparently has a route in the works and I've been wondering what that story would look like. This fic is *not* that story, mainly bc I am aromantic and I decided I needed some rep in this awesome game. Feel free to read this fic as if you are concurrently romancing your sweetheart of choice--in fact, Lucio will probably encourage you bc he's a fucking meddling matchmaker.
> 
> Regarding Lucio: Notice I didn't tag good!Lucio. This is bc while Lucio is not *the* villain of this story, that doesn't mean I think he's a hero. In other words, the Apprentice has a lot of work to do.
> 
> Regarding the Tarot: I have done some research, but I have no actual skill in interpreting the cards. I'm following the lead of the game devs here.
> 
> Regarding canon: Obviously, this whole thing is likely to become charmingly out of date when the next chapter comes out. Regardless of your personal route/iteration of choices, this fic should be able to stand alone as long as you've read the full prologue (books I-V).
> 
> Regarding paid content: I am poor and have no coins or keys. I can't re-play the post-prologue books over and over to examine different choices and catch all the details. For the same reason, this fic won't include content from the paid scenes. The single exception to this is the option in book III where you can go up the stairs with the dogs to meet goatman, which I bought on accident and have chosen to include for obvious reasons.
> 
> Warnings: The game is vaguely PG13, but I've ratcheted things up a little. I'll tag specific items as they come up, but you can expect: sex, body horror, horror in general, gore, murder.
> 
> Things that will *not* come up: bestiality (sorry no goat fucking), explicit lemon scenes (sorry no porn), romance (sorry not sorry), wholesale repetition of the original text (*cough*plagiarism*cough*), swearing (mostly to see if I can pull it off, bc honestly #LetAsraSayFuck2k18 is very tempting)

You are a student of the magical arts. Particularly the Tarot. Particularly Asra's creepy Tarot deck. Listening to the cards speak to you is almost instinctive by now, and they've never failed you yet. Well. Not technically. The Tarot is a magical art focused on divining the truth, but these cards are very vague when it comes to certain truths you would really like to know. Like who you are, and why you don't know that in the first place. There's a whole list of questions, really.

Asra always says you're not asking the right questions. You always say he never answers your questions anyway. The cards probably take after him. Asra made them himself, after all. You've known Asra for as long as you can remember—which is admittedly not long—and you trust him with your life. You just wish he would confide in you a bit more.

Like right now, for example. Asra has decided to go off again on one of his adventures, in the middle of the night, and as usual he refuses to say where he's going or when he'll be back. He didn't invite you along, either. Sometimes it hurts a little, being left behind, alone, at the shop. It's not like you have any other friends. Does Asra visit people—friends?—when he goes away? Maybe you should get out more…

At least Asra is leaving you the Tarot deck. Maybe you can wheedle some more information out of it. Or maybe it'll lead you to an adventure of your own.

"Let's ask the cards."

As you sit down to give Asra his reading, a cold prickling chill slides up the nape of your neck, startling you. The deck slips out of your hand; the cards spill on the floor. You glance around, sure that Faust is up to her tricks again, but she's still wrapped around Asra. Strange. By the time you've shaken off the feeling,  Asra has already leapt up from his seat to collect the cards for you. He holds out the deck, but then pulls back, glancing around.

"I missed one…" he says.

You both check under tables and sweep aside draperies looking for the errant card. You're the one to find it, partly hidden under the leg of your stool. It's the Devil, one of the major arcana. Asra gives you a curious look when you hold it out.

"Does he have a message for me?" Asra has told you before to pay attention to so-called coincidences like this. Things that stand out often do so for a reason.

You close your eyes and feel for the card's energy. The Devil is not necessarily a bad card, but he rarely brings light-hearted news. Right now, however, he is silent. Either the card has nothing to say and dropping the deck was a true accident, or…

You shake your head, and Asra relaxes. "Then let's see who does have a message for me."

What looks to be a dire reading for Asra is interrupted by a knock on the door. He leaves, and as you go to answer the door you wonder if you should have told him: the only thing you could glean from the Devil card was that it was not meant for him, it was meant for you.


	2. Book II: The High Priestess

It's been a whirlwind night. Actually, the whirlwind itself can't have lasted more than an hour, now that you think of it, but nevertheless you feel pretty drained. A visit (and a job!) from the Countess, the appearance of the notorious Doctor Devorak, and Asra's ominous reading… All you want to do right now is sleep.

Except there's something not quite right about the shop. It's almost like someone is watching you. Not eager for another surprise entrance like the doctor's, you go through the whole shop, closing windows and locking doors. You even check a few cabinets. The feeling doesn't go away. There's a sense of desperation taking hold of you, but it's distant, as if it isn't even yours.

It's when you pass by the back room again that you realize you're carrying the source of the feeling around with you. Asra's deck is burning a hole in your pocket. One card in particular.

You sit down at the table and draw the top card off the deck; you're not even surprised that it's the Devil card again, you just put it on the table before you. When you picked the card up off the floor earlier there was no way to tell if it was reversed or not, so you lay it perpendicular to you to indicate the uncertainty. As soon as you do so the card seems to come to life. There's still no message: instead, a sense of expectation pulses through the deck. You're supposed to do a reading, then. A reading for yourself? You don't think so, but then who could you possibly be reading for?

The Devil continues giving off an expectant air. An impatient one, even. You consider him carefully. He lies across from you, in front of the opposite stool, almost taking the place of someone waiting for a reading. Is it silly to do a Tarot reading for a Tarot card?

"You want _me_ to tell _your_  fortune. Shouldn't this be the other way around?" you say.

No answer. The cards never have liked you being cheeky with them.

"Alright then." You set out a spread, and turn over the card that calls to you. The Fool, reversed. One of the more frustratingly vague of the major Arcana, at least for you. Asra's Fool card has no figure in the illustration, unlike every other card in his deck. Maybe that's the reason you've always had trouble communicating with it. Tonight, however, the Fool's message is quite direct.

You speak your thoughts out loud as if this were a normal reading and not one given to an empty room: "You're in a trap of your own design. If you want to escape it, you'll have to take a risk." You pause. You're sensing deep disapproval from the Fool, but not directed at you. It seems they have a lot to say: "Lots of risks, actually. Like, an excessive amount. And not ones you'll like taking. But… it may just work."

The Fool departs, taking their disapproval with them. You wait a moment, wondering if the Devil has anything to say to you. The card is quiet, inert. The feeling of being watched is gone.

When you finally get to sleep that night, the last conscious thought you have is that Asra's deck might refuse to answer questions about your past, but it definitely seems interested in your future.


	3. Book III: The Empress

The watching feeling is back. The moment you set foot in the palace you could feel a heavy aura press down on you, but at first you dismissed it as the weight of the palace itself. Buildings with a lot of history often take on impressions of the happenings inside them until they develop an aura of their own. Now, though, sitting in the Countess's dining hall, staring at the bizarre painting across from you, you know there is something more here than the faded memories of long dead rulers. The aura you're feeling is _alive_.

"Do you like it? The painting?" The Countess asks, startling you.

The goat figure at the center of the painting seems to stare down at you, its eyes exquisitely lifelike. You can't tear your own eyes away from it, which must be what prompted the Countess to ask. You're not sure that 'like' is the relevant word, though. It's a fascinating painting, yes. Mesmerizing, even. You almost say so, but then a cold shiver tickles down the back of your neck and you hear yourself say no.

The Countess raises an eyebrow. "You wound me. My beloved husband had that commissioned." Her words are only mock stern; indeed, you get the feeling she's mocking the painting more than you. "He's the goat at the center, of course. Ever the provider. At least, that's how he saw himself. I suppose he did provide, after a fashion: food to those tempted by hunger, protection to those tempted by fear, wealth to those tempted by greed, war to those tempted by glory… No one could resist him."

You're surprised to hear her speak of Count Lucio to you, but you're more surprised that the Countess does not seem to be overflowing with grief for her late husband. Your intuition tugs at you, and you decide to take a risk.

"People say he was a bit of a tyrant," you offer casually.

Every servant in the room freezes, and the Countess gives you an appraising look, but it's the sudden, sharp twinge of foreign emotion in your chest that gives you pause. It passes in an instant, too quickly for you to identify, and you find yourself giving the painting another glance. Crimson eyes glare back at you.

"People also say that I'm a bit of a tyrant," the Countess says, her tone measured and calculating. "Are you one of those people, I wonder?"

You really want to get out of this dining room. In fact, you'd really like to get out of the palace entirely, but something tells you that that won't be an option any time soon. For now you'll have to settle for the former. The sooner you can be alone, the sooner you can close your eyes and meditate away the stress building up in you in response to the palace's cloying aura.

"Countess, if I may be blunt, why am I here?"

* * *

Later, you're following Portia to your room, distracted by thoughts of your dinner with the Countess, when a hot draft suddenly rushes over you. Startled, you stop in your tracks. You're standing before a wide staircase, veiled in shadow. The draft blows steadily at you from the floor above, prickling at your skin before finally dying down. It smells of ash. You strain to see where the stairs lead, but the darkness at the top is impenetrable. The palace's aura is particularly strong here, you note absently.

Curled up on the bottom step are two large, lanky dogs with shockingly white fur. They notice you as soon as you notice them. Fathomless eyes fix upon you, and they rise slowly, without a sound, in eerie sync with each other. Despite their luxurious grooming, it's clear that they're hunting hounds, and you get the sense that if they decided to tear you apart they would do it in the same leisurely manner with which they now approach you. However, when you hold out your hand for them to sniff, it becomes apparent that they've decided to be friendly. Their tails start to swing from side to side and their huffing breaths tickle your skin.

"Oh my… What is this? You actually got up from your favorite stair?" Portia's voice rings through the corridor, and you look up to see her regarding the dogs with wide eyes from farther up ahead. Hands on her broad hips, she glances between you and the dogs several times before smiling. "Well, this is bizarre. These two never take kindly to strangers. I've never seen them act like this. They were Count Lucio's hounds, you know. They're still loyal to him: those are the stairs to his wing they're guarding. It's sweet, really."

Portia points at each of the dogs in turn. "This one is Mercedes, and that one is Melchior."

"They're beautiful," you say. As if they can understand the compliment, the dogs come closer to you, their silky coats brushing your legs. On a whim, you reach out to pet the smaller one, Mercedes.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!"

The dog rears back, from your hand or from Portia's panicked tone, you're not sure.

"Sorry," Portia says. "I know they're gorgeous and all, but they're also a little unpredictable. Count Lucio liked to keep them vicious. They seem to like you, but I'd rather you keep that hand." Portia attempts to shoo the dogs away. "Now go on, you two. Protect your stairs."

Mercedes and Melchior turn their attention to Portia, heads cocked and looking expectant. They don't move. Portia frowns. "Oh! Has no one brought you your chamomile cakes yet?"

The dogs' tails wag once, in sync. Portia turns to you. "If you don't mind? I'll be quick—they'll be up all night otherwise."

You nod. Portia admonishes the dogs to be good for you, and then disappears through a sliding panel in the wall. You're left alone in the hall with the two dogs. After a moment, Melchior saunters towards you. Then she jerks into a hunting crouch. You blood freezes as you remember Portia's warning, but Melchior stops short and sits back on her haunches. Just then you feel Mercedes bump the backs of your knees, nearly toppling you over. When you've finally caught your balance, both dogs are sitting primly before you, looking innocent. Cheeky.

Mercedes cocks an ear. An unsettling sensation ripples through your body like a wave of fever.

"Ooooh hello hello hello. What do we have here… a guest?"

You startle back away from the dogs, gaze darting up and down the corridor. Who said that? It sounded like it was coming from—you turn around to face the stairs to Count Lucio's wing—up there. You peer into the gloom, but you can only see so far. Trying to see further, you put a foot on the first step. You nearly jump when you feel yanking at your garments. The dogs: their teeth are buried in your clothes, unrelenting as they drag you off the step.

"No, no, my beauties… be on your best behavior now."

The dogs let go of you. Glancing between them and the stairway, you watch for a negative reaction as you place your foot back on the bottom step. They stare at you implacably. Satisfied, you turn your attention to the stairway. It's calling to you. Your skin prickles; your face feels hot with excitement. There is something up there you really need to see.

The dogs remain below, fathomless eyes tracking each step as you go carefully up the stairs. The oppressive gloom falls around you like a cloak, and you pause, wondering for the first time if this a good idea.

"Just a little closer… Let me show off my famous hospitality."

Snickering bounces off the walls, and you feel a sweltering heat at your back, urging you higher. A few more steps and you reach the landing. A miasma of thick scorching air sinks into your skin like a deep sunburn.

"Now then, let's take a proper look at you, my little trespasser."

The mocking words lap at your ear. You can feel hot breath skimming your cheek, a presence at your side. Your heartbeat speeds up, breath growing short… The presence falls back, dry air filling the void and carrying with it once more the smell of ash. You get the distinct feeling of being circled.

"Tsk Tsk. Cheap clothes, no weapons, no enchanted gear, no spellbooks… What kind of champion are you?"

A phantom gaze roams your body from head to toe as you twist and squirm, trying to catch the presence by sight. It's futile.

"Just another peasant fortune-teller. How boring. _You're_ the one this fool is pinning his hopes on? Pathetic. I was hoping for some entertainment."

The lightest breath of cool air lands on your cheek, although the voice had come from your other side. You blink. Something very insistent is tugging at you, a prickle dancing up your spine, but the heat is overwhelming, distracting. You're swaying on your feet, eyes lidded. You feel so strange…

"Oooh, what is this?"

There is a sensation at the crown of your head, sucking the air, drawing your aura up, followed by a guttural groan.

"There in your energy, oh it's him. You bear his signature. Asraaaaaa. This is powerful, potent magic. Oh yes, that's the real deal. He's all over you. Could it be…?"

You feel the feverish heat swoop over your shoulders and rise up before you. It blasts across your face, impossibly close. A steamy sigh flutters over your throat, raising goosebumps all the way down your arms.

"Was it you? The one who broke him for me? I'd just love to get to know you."

A rash of warmth lands on your shoulder, whisper light. It starts to lead you down the arid hall. The longer the pressure bears down on you, the hotter it grows; even as it begins to burn you keep walking. It doesn't occur to you to do anything else.

Suddenly, a freezing grip clamps down on your other shoulder. The cold is such a shock that you stop shuffling forward. The sensation cuts through your body like crystal, clearing your mind like a bucket of ice water over your head. The insistent prickle at the nape of your neck heightens, and suddenly there's a new voice hissing at you, eerily similar to the other one.

_Get out, get out, get out! Turn around, you idiot. How could you be so stupid? Turn around!_

You completely agree. With a measure of alertness restored to you, it's clear that you should never have come up here. Your intuition is screaming. There is magic here, and wrongness, and all of it is slowly trying to smother you. You need to leave. You try to turn towards the stairway, but the searing pressure from before is still holding you. You can't move, and the heat is slowly sucking the cold, focused feeling out of you.

The strange voice in your head sounds distinctly panicked, and somewhat fainter than before. _The dogs. Call for the dogs._

Your voice is a rasping croak—you're practically choking on the taste of ash—but you do seem to have control of your tongue. "Mercedes! Melchior!"

For a moment you're not sure if your breathless call was loud enough, but then you feel silky soft fur brushing your thighs and a wet nose pressing against your palm. The dogs' white coats stand out in the gloom: you can see their hackles are raised. They circle you as closely as they can without approaching your left side, where the presence is still clinging to you, trying to burn its will into yours. It grips you more firmly.

"Impudent curs! Begone!"

The dogs growl, but they come no closer. The standstill stretches on—until suddenly, your name rings down the hall in Portia's strong voice. She's looking for you.

The presence repeats your name, savoring it. "That's you, isn't it? I'll be keeping an eye on you."

It releases its hold on your shoulder, and the dogs rush to your side instantly. For a split second, you think you see a strange figure standing in front of you, but then it's gone.

"Maybe this will be entertaining after all…"

Your name rings out all around again, in Portia's singsong call and in a malevolent, mocking echo that travels down the empty hall. This time the dogs don't have to drag you down the steps. When you reach the bottom, you stumble, the last of the haze lifting from your mind. The dogs circle around you one more time, hackles still raised, before slinking off down the corridor. You're not alone for more than a second, however, before Portia finds you, looking relieved.

"There you are! Where did the dogs go? Up the stairs?" Portia gives the stairway an uneasy glance. "…I'll just leave the cakes here, then. Goodness, you look ill, are you feeling alright?"

No, you are not feeling alright.


End file.
